


Cigarette Curiosity

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Canon ages, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28489203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Piers never kisses him after he smokes.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Kudos: 15





	Cigarette Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something lighthearted since my normal stuff is rather different, and it ended up rather tongue-in-cheek.

Piers never kisses him after he smokes.

It isn’t for a lack of interest or desire. He’s affectionate, overly so, when they meet—kisses gently peppering the skin like snowflakes, fluttering upon the eyelids and cheeks, and hand warm against his, fingers threaded together, every motion and every touch soft.

It isn’t a distaste for the act itself either. They’ve kissed before, sometimes openmouthed and wet and others brief and chaste but no less fervent, affection apparent.

Rather, it’s because of the smell and taste, both reasons given by Piers himself.

Piers refuses to kiss him after he smokes and before he brushes, mint taken soon after as well.

Victor doesn’t quite understand it. He doesn’t think it would bother him all too much. Piers’s scent has always had a tinge of cigarette smoke to it, comfortably familiar and pungently sharp. Furthermore, he doesn’t smoke enough for the scent to be overpowering, near-intolerable.

One smoke every night after dinner, always outside on the porch, and roughly three whenever he works on his music, lyrics often scratched out and sheet crumpled up and thrown into the trash bin alongside the soaked cigarette butts.

It isn’t enough for the smell to stick, not with how often Piers bathes and washes his clothes, but still, Piers insists on it.

They don’t kiss after Piers smokes.

Even when he wheedles him, hints obvious, or directly asks, voice whining and a bit begging, they don’t kiss, and naturally, he tries to rectify it, denial fanning his curiosity further.

He has already tried being cute, eyes pleading and wide—almost teary—and Piers had faltered then, nearly giving in before shaking his head, and he’s attempted to steal kisses before, actions always interrupted by a hand playfully blocking his lips or even simply hindered by their difference in height and frame.

Piers is too tall, frame larger and stronger than his by the mere virtue of his age. It isn’t easy to steal a kiss, not when Piers could easily escape just by standing.

Nothing works.

He doesn’t think it would be bad—he doesn’t mind the smell after all—but Piers doesn’t quite agree.

Furthermore, he isn’t used to Piers denying him, cuteness and affection often swaying his opinions.

Piers, if anything, is an accommodating lover, overly affectionate and laid-back despite appearances and doting almost to the point of suffocation. Naturally, Victor doesn’t mind—they wouldn’t be together otherwise—but it makes Piers’s denial an oddity, out of place and annoying in a manner akin to the pinpricks of a sewing needle.

And thus, Victor finds himself curious, curiosity heightening his desire with each passing day.

But still, he doesn’t want to give up. He’s stubborn.

He tries cuteness once more, tricks—mistletoe and even a ferris wheel kiss as couples’ traditions go—and simple requests, but nothing works, days ticking by until it’s the morning of Christmas Eve.

He’s frustrated, pout having been met with lighthearted laughter and a pale hand combing through his hair, brown strands tousled further. His mood hadn’t been particularly helped when he had gotten caught in the Christmas lights, tree thankfully not upturned, or by Marnie’s own jests, jokes more teasing than truly meanspirited.

Nonetheless, despite his various failed attempts, he still doesn’t quite want to yield.

As a result, his next attempt comes on Christmas, during the party.

It isn’t the most ideal of places or situations—house crowded with friends and especially noisy—but he doesn’t want to wait until after they leave or for the day after.

He’s too impatient for that.

At the very least, he knows Piers well enough to understand his distaste for crowded parties and his habit for an after-dinner smoke, both stress relief and an unfortunate habit that his sister often scolds him on.

Well, a mid-dinner smoke tonight.

Despite the hotpot present, a paradoxical favorite of his, Piers isn’t particularly fond of the noise, drunken chatter and the stories, tales about equally drunken escapades loudly broadcasted among alcohol-influenced jibes.

He thinks it would be easier to steal a kiss from him then rather than in the crowded kitchen or living room.

And thus, he follows after Piers, steps much more even than his, a consequence of the lack of alcohol.

Despite their status as lovers, Piers doesn’t let him drink, having instead deigned to give him a soda for tonight.

It doesn’t bother him, not tonight anyhow, not when their difference in states would only help him with his goals.

Piers, in his current state, wouldn’t be as quick about stopping him.

That is what he hopes for anyhow—kiss finally stolen.

When he arrives at the porch, Piers leaning forward on the railing, already smoking and with elbows resting on the railing, Victor doesn’t immediately call to him. Instead, he comes to stand beside him, wood creaking with each step and breath visible in the night chill.

Naturally, he doesn’t warn Piers when he moves to kiss him either—movements sudden and heights equalized by Piers’s posture. Much to his pleasure, Piers’s reaction time is much slower than usual as well.

Piers’s hand doesn’t quite move in time, not before their lips meet, tongue soon slipping in.

He doesn’t quite get Piers’s concern. His mouth is dry from the smoke and a bit acidic, taste a bit off-putting but nowhere near as unpleasant as Piers’s actions would suggest, but it isn’t wholly intolerable, nothing worth a year’s of avoidance and teasing.

At least, that is until Piers blows smoke into his mouth, movement caused by surprise and bitter smoke eliciting a round of coughs.

Too hot and too bitter, acidic.

His eyes are watering, chest still heaving as he coughs, when he hears Piers curse, voice frantic and accompanied by loudly creaking wood and stomping, noise oddly rhythmic despite his panic and reminiscent of “Jingle Bells.”

It isn’t directed at him—Victor is rather relieved about that—but the reason for it isn’t all too stellar in his opinion.

Rather, Piers, in his attempt to stop him, had dropped his cigarette, lit end having snagged briefly in his hair before falling onto the—very old and very dry—wood.

It isn’t an especially festive occasion in Victor’s opinion, but at the very least, it doesn’t end as badly as it could have—house still standing with minimal damage, just some burn marks on the flooring, and Piers thankfully not lit up like a Yuletide goat in December.

They could thank Nessa and Kabu for that. As drunk as they were, they are still Gym Leaders, always trained for emergencies and rather keen on not burning to death at a Christmas party.

He doesn’t quite want to end up on the news as the Champion who accidentally disfigured his lover in pursuit of a kiss. While memorable, it doesn’t look especially desirable on a future job resumé.

Though, he doesn’t quite like how smug Piers is, hair now in drastic need of a trim—he wouldn’t mind that in all honest; Piers has always looked good no matter the length of his hair—and a bit too happy considering the events of few minutes earlier.

Granted, they’re all rather nonchalant all things considering, alcohol and holiday cheer having diluted common sense.

He can still hear Raihan’s snickering from the living room and the jingle of coins and dollars, all money placed toward a—rather substantial if he hears their words and ribbing correctly—betting pool for Piers’s next haircut.

He hopes Bede doesn’t win. Despite his earlier thoughts, he doesn’t think Piers would look as good entirely bald. He’s already pale enough. An entirely shaved head would probably cause a traffic accident if the light were to shine a bit too brightly and in the wrong way. They don’t need another fine, not after the last one.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t quite enjoy how smug Piers is, hair singed but no longer burning and words still carrying a faint trace of smoke.

“Learned your lesson, Victor?”

Victor doesn’t reply. He only pouts, arms crossing and expression only deepening when he feels Piers’s hand ruffle his hair.

“Well?” Still no anger, only smug glee at being proven right in arguably the third best—third worst?— way possible.

He knows Piers well enough at this point, and if there’s anything he enjoys, it’s being right.

Still, Victor doesn’t reply. He only pouts further before leaning forward, lips once again meeting Piers’s and thankfully not stopped this time.

Petty and childish perhaps, but he is eleven. He thinks some allotments should be made for his age.

At the very least, Piers doesn’t stop him this time, and as he had thought, the taste, sans cigarette smoke, isn’t all too bad.

He doesn’t think it could be bad, not when it is Piers.

And if anything, Victor has always liked him.

Smell and taste—everything.

It is distinctly Piers after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is more silly than anything, but I wanted to poke fun at everything. A bit late after Christmas as well, but I wanted to space out my postings.


End file.
